‘You were given no assurances,’ said Faustus heavily. ‘The only thing you can rely on is this: if I can identify the real killers as a result of your evidence, any assistance will be taken into account. You volunteered the information — which will count more in your favour than if it was extracted from you by any other means. Keep calm, place your faith in justice, and if you have nothing else to tell us, you can go.’
Roscius turned to me. ‘He’s a cool one!’ he adjudged.
‘Sits in a bath of snow for pleasure,’ I answered. ‘Bunk off quick, while he’s given you the chance.’
Rabirius Roscius rushed to an access door at the end of the terrace. We heard him stride up the ramp as he left the building.
In silence, Faustus and I walked slowly back inside through the folding doors to the main hall.
The curator appeared while we were staring at one another in astonishment and bafflement at what we had heard. This keeper, a grimy old man in a long tunic, went and turned on the cascade. It was a ploy to get money. Faustus tossed him a coin without comment, then the man slunk away again. After a few hiccups, the nymphaeum display surged into life. Sheets of water, slightly brackish at first, sluiced over the steps and vanished away through secret exit channels.
‘Do we believe him?’ Faustus asked, frowning slightly at the unsought entertainment. I felt cooler already, standing near the moving water, though I pulled in my skirts in case of splashes.
‘I think so. It’s a weird tale to invent. Roscius had no need to admit ever being in the house, not unless his story is genuine. Oh, and Tiberius, he seemed truly horrified by what he says he saw. I definitely accept his depiction of the crime scene.’ Faustus nodded, in one of his silent moods. He liked to absorb information at his own pace.
More used to making quick assessments, I blew out air, then ticked off questions that surged into my mind:
Where were the slaves while the robbers were poking about the apartment?
If it was not the robbers, then who had stolen the silver, where had they hidden it, where was it now?
If not the robbers, who did kill Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia?
Why was Nicostratus not at his post in the corridor? When was Nicostratus attacked, if not before the theft and killings? Who attacked him? Why − and why later?
I tested some possible answers, but weakly.
‘The other door porter, Phaedrus, told me he was having supper in the kitchen. Maybe they were all there? Would they have had a chance to eat earlier, while the feast was going on? Maybe not. Maybe the slaves could not eat until after the party was over … Would there be enough room in the kitchen for all of them? I don’t think so. It’s too full of cupboards and cooking benches. There were ten, plus the hugely pregnant Myla. I think Myla told me she was dossing down in the slaves’ quarters at the time of the attack, but like all their claims, that now comes into question.’
‘We need to reflect,’ Faustus decided.
‘Speak for yourself, aedile! I need to jump on this straightaway or it will drive me crazy.’ He smiled a little. I rushed on: ‘I shall have to re-interview those deceitful beggars urgently. This afternoon I’ll look over my notes from their first examinations, then I shall come up to the office for a showdown.’
‘Want my help when you speak to them?’ asked Faustus, seeming keen to be involved.
‘No, thanks. I took the initial statements; I prefer to do the follow up myself.’ He was the client. It was my commission.
He agreed to leave it to me. Perhaps he looked put out. I could not tell if he knew I was blaming myself for previously believing lies. He must concede I did have a sense of trouble earlier. I had told him then that I felt the slaves were holding something back; something was not right.
The aedile and I stayed briefly in the Auditorium, each considering the implications, though independently and without further discussion, while finely judged torrents of cool water splashed elegantly over beautiful white marble in the background.
37
Eventually we emerged, into a Rome full of glaring warmth and light. We picked up Dromo, who had stayed kicking his heels outside. All today he had been following us around at a distance, barely noticed by his master or me; that was the normal life of a slave. Faustus had whistled to him a couple of times when we were about to change venues. I hoped Dromo had not seen that moment of theatre between Faustus and me at the bar, but he gave no sign of it.
Faustus set off alone on the long haul back to the Aventine. I walked to the Aviola apartment. The streets were quiet, towards the end of lunchtime. The sun was hot, so even though it was not far I went slowly, keeping to the shady side. Dromo plodded along behind me, apparently too tired even to be distracted by pastry stalls. When I took a drink from a fountain, he did. When I set off again, he trudged behind obediently. I had to trust him to keep an eye out for trouble, because I was too deeply preoccupied with what Roscius had said.
At the apartment I flopped in a chair in my room, chin down, fanning myself with the top of my tunic. This only stretches the neck of the garment. It never cools you. I needed to jump in a freezing cold fountain, nude, then come out to high-class attendants fanning ostrich feathers …
I had gathered my previous note tablets though felt too drained to begin on them. I was no stranger to starting all over again on a case, but it is dreary. For once, Dromo went to the kitchen and brought me a tray of lunch. It was only because he could see I had no interest in fetching my own; he knew that unless I had something, there would be nothing for him. I accepted the tray and remembered to thank him, at which he found the energy to mime being startled.
Revived, I read up my notes. While I was going over the old interviews, voices disturbed me. Galla Simplicia and Sextus Simplicius — Aviola’s ex-wife and his executor — had heard about Polycarpus. She had come with condolences for Graecina; he no doubt accompanied her out of curiosity. I thought I had better be present, though I kept out of sight to begin with.
Galla had sent Myla to fetch down the widow. When Graecina came, Galla embraced her with every sign of affection. Grief had now descended on Graecina. The poor woman occupied her own, newly terrible world. I was impressed by the steady way Galla Simplicia talked to her and consoled her. She asked questions about how Graecina was coping and how she would manage in future; she made suggestions about the funeral, offering help. For once, I saw an extended Roman family operating properly: the mistress (a role Galla had taken up again with alacrity) kindly looking after the wife of one of their freedmen.
I could not fault her. And this was the woman people said had wanted to murder her ex-husband and his bride. Unintentionally, Galla Simplicia did herself some good with me that afternoon.
Her cousin wandered about the courtyard at a loose end. I slipped along a portico, as if by chance, and greeted him. Since he had now lost his intended new steward before Polycarpus even started in the post, I asked whether he would now keep Gratus, but when people once make up their minds to dismiss a staff member, they tend to go through with it. Simplicius insisted Gratus was still to be ‘let go’ via the slave market.
It struck me Gratus might have had a motive to dispose of his rival Polycarpus. However, since Gratus was to be sent packing whatever happened, and he probably knew that, all he would have gained was revenge. It can bring joy to the bitter or indignant, but Gratus never struck me as that type. His measured attitude had been why I thought him a good steward.
Still, what did I know? I had let a bunch of household slaves fool me with an elaborate fiction whose purpose I had yet to uncover.
Myla was hanging around, taking too much interest in Simplicius just as she had with Faustus the other evening. Galla then called to him and they left.